A Summer in the Country

by Marcia Willett

  “Very sensible. But what do you plan to do next?”

  “I think we should telephone her husband,” said Brigid firmly. “Louise’s not well, I’m sure of it, and he ought to know. I don’t want to go through her belongings but I’m hoping there’s a number somewhere.”

  She looked so unusually helpless that Frummie took charge.

  ’That sounds reasonable. Look, what about a drink? Just to fortify ourselves? You’ve had a shock, by the look of you.”

  “That would be good.” Brigid nodded gratefully. “There was something so… weird about it. Scary. Yes, a drink would be nice.”

  Frummie was already dealing with it. “Shock can push you over the edge, you know. I saw a lot of it after the war. People can be terribly brave and then all of a sudden, they crack. She’s probably been worrying about it for a very long time but trying not to let it show.”

  “Probably.” Brigid shivered again. “I hope she’s OK on her own. You don’t think she might do something silly?”

  Frummie smiled her down-turned smile. “Depends what you mean by ‘silly.’ Here, take this. Let’s not get too melodramatic.”

  “I’ll feel better when I’ve talked to Martin.” Brigid put the keys on a small table, beside the lamp, and took the glass. ‘Thanks.”

  “Will you? Why?”

  “Why not?” Brigid looked at her mother curiously. “He’s the one to deal with it, isn’t he?”

  Frummie shrugged. “It depends. If he’s having an affair he might not be all that interested.”

  “Not interested? He’s her husband!”

  “Is he?”

  Brigid stared at her and then laughed. “Sorry. Have I lost the plot or something? What are you talking about?”

  Frummie sat down again. “It’s just something Louise said. That evening when we’d had supper with you she came in afterwards for a nightcap. She talked about infidelity and then said something which made me think that she’s not actually married to this Martin or whatever his name is. Of course, she’d had a bit to drink but, even so, I think she was speaking the truth.”

  Brigid closed her eyes for a moment. “But even if she isn’t married to him,” she argued, “he still has the right to know.”

  “Of course.” Frummie raised her eyebrows. “Why not? I’m just warning you that he might not be that interested.”

  “But they’ve been… together,” she chose the word carefully, “for at least three years.”

  “The trouble is,” said Frummie slowly, “that when a man or a woman falls in love, or becomes infatuated with someone outside their own relationship, they can become so involved with the drama of this new life, so wrapped up and besotted by it, that their normal responsibilities seem utterly unreal. They crave the new experience so desperately that they can become quite useless to their former partners.”

  “Well,” said Brigid bleakly, after a minute of silence. “You should know.”

  Frummie bit her lip. “I do know” she said evenly. “That’s why Fm warning you.”

  “But what are you suggesting?” asked Brigid angrily. “Even if Martin chooses to renege on his responsibilities, Louise must have other people, family, who care about her.”

  “Fm not saying that you shouldn’t telephone him. Fm just suggesting that this might not be as straightforward as you think it is.”

  “Fm going to telephone.” Brigid set her drink down. “I’m going to do it now.”

  She opened Louise’s bag and brought out a diary. Frummie watched her with unusual compassion as she sat, holding the little book, unable actually to open it.

  “You’ll have to, you know,” she said gently. “There’s no other way. We know he’s not at home. Do you have her home number, by the way?”

  “Yes.” Brigid glanced at her quickly. “Do you think I should try that first?”

  Frummie shook her head. “No point. Get on with it. I’ll do it if you feel squeamish about it.”

  Brigid opened the book almost distastefully and looked at the scribbled entries in the “Notes” section at the back. “I always put odd numbers and addresses at the end,” she said, almost conversationally. “Don’t you?”

  “Sometimes. Any luck?”

  “No. Not yet. Lots of bits and pieces.” She turned a few pages. “Oh, hang on. The letters MM and a long number.”

  “Martin’s mobile?” hazarded Frummie. “Well, give it a go.

  Brigid stood up and went to the telephone. She dialled carefully, listened for a moment and then spoke. “I’m hoping I’ve reached Martin Parry. This is Brigid Foster. Could you give me a call?” She gave her telephone number and replaced the receiver. “Not answering,” she said. “I’ve left a message.”

  “Fair enough. But perhaps you’d better go over to the house, in case he phones back.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of that.” She hesitated. “What should I do with Louise’s bag?”

  “I’ll take it back. Don’t worry. I’ll be discreet.”

  “And the car-keys?”

  “I think, just for a while, we’ll ‘lose’ the keys.”

  The two women stared at each other.

  “Yes,” said Brigid at last. “I think that would be best. And … thanks. I’m sorry if I was a bit—”

  “Nothing to apologise for. I’ll come over, if you like, once I’ve taken her bag back and checked up on her.”

  “That would be … nice. You could have supper, if you like. Louise too, if she’ll come.”

  “Thank you. I’d like that. Finish your drink and hurry away. It would be irritating if he left a message.”

  “Yes.” Brigid swallowed the rest of her wine, smiled rather wanly and disappeared.

  Frummie sipped her own drink more calmly, her face preoccupied. The door which Brigid had closed began to open very, very slowly. Frummie set down her glass, put the bag behind a cushion, reached for the keys, and sat quite still. Louise slipped inside and, holding the door shut behind her, put a finger to her lips.

  “Someone is looking for me,” she whispered. “She’s in my cottage. I can hear her. I fell asleep, just for a minute, and she got in. May I stay with you until she’s gone?”

  Frummie got up and went across to her, taking her by the arm.

  “Of course you can, my dear,” she said. “How nice. Now sit down. No, not there. Here. And I’ll get you a drink. Do you like Casablanca? Of course you do! I’ve just been watching it.”

  Louise looked at her fearfully, with a terrible sadness in her eyes. “She’s looking for me, you see. Only I don’t know what to say to her.”

  “We’ll deal with that later.” Frummie was quite firm. “There.” She picked up the remote control and pressed the button. “Now sit still and relax. You’re quite safe with me.”

  Louise relaxed, as a child might in the care of some higher authority. “Thank you,” she said politely and, turning her gaze on the screen, she sank gratefully into the corner of the sofa.

  CHAPTER 15

  Back in her own kitchen, Brigid felt a measure of calm returning. It was warm and quiet here, and Blot wagged a welcome from his basket.

  “That was so scary,” she murmured to him. “Whatever can be wrong with her? Is it a nervous breakdown because she’s found out about Martin?”

  Blot stirred about in his basket, settling himself contentedly. He rather missed Humphrey each time he went away— Humphrey had a generous way with biscuits and treats—but he was warm and comfortable, and pleasandy weary. Brigid bent to pat him. When she’d returned from seeing Humphrey on to the train she and Blot had walked along the O Brook, past Horse Ford and up on to Down Ridge, arriving home two hours later, muddy and tired but reconciled to the idea of six months’ separation. Even the spacious timelessness of the moor, however, had been unable to soothe or quieten her fears about Jenny’s troubles or help her come to terms with the news about Humphrey’s father. Now there was Louise to worry about too. Brigid hadn’t been made particularly anxious
by Jemima’s report. She’d dismissed it rather patronisingly, deciding that it was just another of Jemima’s attempts to attract attention.

  “The trouble is,” Jemima had said, “I think that it’s partly my fault.”

  “How on earth could it be your fault?” she’d snapped, preoccupied by Humphrey’s departure, his father’s request for a home, Jenny’s bombshell. “How can any of it have anything to do with you? Don’t be such a drama queen.”

  Brigid gave Blot a final pat and stood up. The real truth was that she’d been jealous that Louise had told Jemima things that she, Brigid, knew nothing about, and she’d reacted by snarling like a bad-tempered dog. She’d behaved exactly the same way with her mother when she’d discovered that Frummie knew that Louise wasn’t married and had talked about infidelity. “Well, you should know,” she’d said bitterly.

  Brigid, remembering the look on Frummie’s face, felt an urge to burst into tears of frustration.

  “And we were getting on so well,” she said miserably. “She was being so… comforting. Oh hell. Why can’t I be a cow and enjoy it? She’s hurt me a million times and doesn’t give a damn.”

  The telephone bell, shattering the silence, gave her such a fright that she stood for a moment or two, her hands pressed to her heart, before hurrying to answer it, convinced that it was Martin Parry.

  “Just to say I’m back safely, love.” Humphrey sounded determinedly cheerful. “A good journey, no hold-ups. Are you OK?”

  “Of course,” she lied. “Absolutely fine. It was lovely to see you.”

  “It was great. And I’ll be home in a fortnight for nearly a, week.” He didn’t add: “before I go off for six months.” After all, they both knew that and there was no point in raising the subject now.

  “We’ll make the most of it,” she promised. “How’s everyone at your end …?”

  She’d just replaced the receiver when Frummie put her head round the door.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I did knock but I could hear your voice and guessed you were on the telephone. Was it Martin?”

  “It was Humphrey.” Brigid laughed, resigned. “I can’t tell you the fright the phone ringing gave me. I was all worked up ready for Martin. It was terribly difficult behaving as if everything is utterly normal. Have you seen Louise?”

  “She appeared just after you’d gone. Said that someone was at her cottage, looking for her.”

  Brigid stared at her mother, the smile dying away from her face. “How horrid.”

  “It was rather. I got her settled down and made her a drink.”

  “And what’s she doing now?” Brigid looked alarmed. “Should you have left her?”

  “Don’t worry.” Frummie grinned guiltily. “She’s sleeping. I put a couple of Mogadons in her wine.”

  “Mogadons ? You’re joking?”

  “Don’t look so panicky. A couple of Mogs won’t hurt her. I thought it was best to keep her sedated while we decided what to do.”

  “But supposing she’s on some kind of medication, couldn’t it be dangerous?”

  “It’ll knock her out for a bit, that’s all. She could do with a good sleep, by the look of her. Don’t fuss, darling. She’ll be fine. I don’t think she should be left alone tonight, though. She’d better stay with me.”

  Brigid felt a wave of relief. “Are you sure? Won’t you be … well, frightened?”

  “I think she needs looking after. When she gets a lucid moment I’ll try to find out what’s going on. It could be this thing with Martin but I have the feeling that it’s more than that.”

  “But what?”

  Frummie shook her head. “It’s just a feeling. Let’s wait and see what Martin says. He might be able to throw some light on it.”

  “But supposing he doesn’t call back? He might not pick up the message. We can’t just do nothing.”

  “We’ll give it until the morning. You could try the number again later. When she comes to, I’ll bring her over and we’ll have some supper. Will that be OK?”

  “Of course it will. Let’s hope Martin telephones before she wakes up. After all, he could be here before morning, even if he’s playing golf in Scotland.”

  Frummie gave her an odd look. “I don’t think we should count on it. I’m going back now, just in case she wakes. See you later on.”

  Brigid shook her head and went to the fridge for some wine. Surely, once Martin heard about Louise’s condition, he would set out at once?

  Praying that he would telephone, Brigid began to prepare some supper.

  LOUISE WOKE and sat for some minutes in silence, puzzling as to where she was. Part of her, a tiny part, didn’t much care; was content to sink into a comfortable, mental oblivion. In a different corner of her mind, however, some tough, insistent voice prevailed. It warned her to shake off this all-too-welcome apathy; to continue the fight to keep the past separate from the present. It pricked her onwards, refusing to let her rest, and now there was something else that worried at her; which threatened to fuse the two together. Martin. It was her fear of losing Martin which had started this whole disintegration: beginning before the holiday, crystallising into awareness on the train and culminating in the telephone call.

  She sat up straighter, forcing her weary, unwilling mind to concentrate. She’d almost forgotten the telephone call; it seemed so long ago since she’d spoken to him and he’d been evasive, cool, and, foolishly, fallen into the trap she’d set for him. How long ago? This morning? Yesterday? She raised her arm weightily, as if it were a log, and stared at her watch. Ten past seven. Frowning, she let her hands drop heavily into her lap. She could remember a conversation with Jemima but had no idea whether it was before or after she’d talked with Martin. What difference? She shrugged, tried to laugh, but it was too great an effort. What mattered was that her suspicions were grounded in reality. Martin was having an affair and might leave her just as readily as he had left Susan. How could she live without him; without his ability to envelop, to control, to fill the space which stretched back into the past so that she could rest against him? He’d stood between, protecting her, and without him she was vulnerable. Already her past was coming closer, so close that occasionally it collided with her present, sending her spinning out of control.

  She said aloud: “It’s all the striving. I’m too tired.”

  There was a movement in the shadows behind her and she jumped nervously, staring anxiously.

  “But the trouble is,” Frummie said, “that one simply cannot give up.” She laid a hand on Louise’s shoulder, smiling down at her. “Sometimes, though, you can let others carry the burden for a little while.”

  “Oh, hello.” Louise spoke quite naturally but with a certain amount of relief. “I couldn’t think where I was for a minute. You know, I think I’m going mad.”

  “Oh, I doubt it. Not just yet. You popped over to see me and I gave you a drink. I suspect you haven’t been eating or sleeping much and it rather knocked you out. You’ve slept so heavily that I expect you’ve had some rather odd dreams.”

  “Yes.” Louise shivered a little. “I think I have. It’s very strange…”

  “Don’t try to remember them,” said Frummie quickly. “No future in that. Real life’s quite enough to deal with at the moment.”

  Louise chuckled with genuine amusement. “You’re so right. I’m sorry to have fallen asleep on you. I suppose I ought to go and leave you in peace.”

  “Oh, but we’re having supper with Brigid. Don’t you remember? She’s invited us both.”

  “I do remember…” She hesitated, thinking back… Brigid coming in, making tea … and something else —

  “Well, there you are then. Look, I think we should be getting a move on. She’ll be expecting us and we don’t want the supper to be ruined.”

  She began to help Louise up, talking, joking, so that the memories, disjointed and insubstantial, faded and she smiled back, following her out of the cottage and across the courtyard.

  BRIGID WE
LCOMED them in, hiding her misgivings. She shook her head at Frummie’s silent query—no, no telephone call—and smiled at Louise.

  ’Thanks for coming,” she said. “I always feel at a loose end when Humphrey goes away.”

  “Louise’s only just woken up.” Frummie sent her daughter a comforting wink. “I think my cocktail was rather too much for her but she’s feeling better now.”

  Brigid knew that she was being told that the strange mood had passed, that Louise was herself again. Nevertheless, there was a muted, vulnerable quality about the younger woman which touched Brigid’s compassion.

  “Thanks,” she murmured to her mother, trying to make up for that bitterness, oarlier. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

  Frummie smiled her down-turned smile, made some joke about doing anything for a free drink and offered her assistance with the supper.

  “It’s all under control.” Brigid’s voice was stronger, quite cheerful. “I hope you’re both hungry. I’m starving but then I’ve had a long walk.”

  Whilst Frummie answered her and Brigid poured drinks, Louise sat quietly, her face thoughtful. Tiny reverberations echoed in her mind. Brigid’s first remark had the force of deja vu. She’d heard something like it before. “I’ve been making the most of having Humphrey home”—and she’d agreed that you had to make the most of every moment, remembering … remembering. She was jerked back into the present. Frummie was giving her a drink, raising her own glass, and Louise shook away the cobwebby miasma which clogged her concentration and lifted her glass in response.

  “Have you been up the O Brook as far as the Horse Ford?” Brigid was asking her. “Blot and I went way up on the moor this afternoon. He got soaked.”

  She was ladling tomato and red pepper soup into bowls, taking hot rolls from the Aga, and the delicious smell filled Louise with a sudden, inexplicable happiness. She felt safe, warm, comforted, here in this kitchen with these two women. She could concentrate on this, relax into it. Happiness bubbled inside her and she smiled at Frummie and tasted her soup with relish.